Lahat ng Kabanata ng Regretful Heart: CEO's Tears Over Her Pregnancy: Kabanata 121 - Kabanata 130

Vienna’s POVPassport? Check. Wallet? Check.I ran through my packing list for the third time, my fingers trembling slightly as I zipped my suitcase shut. I was really doing this. Leaving everything behind. Starting over on the other side of the world.Bella stood by the door, blinking ferociously. Then, in a sudden burst of emotion, she pulled me into a tight hug."Don’t you dare forget about me, V," she whispered, her voice thick. "You better call me the moment you land."I nodded into her shoulder. "I promise. Thank you. For everything. I couldn’t have done any of this without you."She pulled back, swiping at her eyes, and then gave me a mischievous wink. "Oh, and… I might have a little surprise for you."I blinked. "A surprise?""You’ll see," she said airily, shooing me toward the door. "Now go chase that Parisian dream."Still puzzled, I climbed into the car waiting out front. Fred was behind the wheel, and Harold sat in the passenger seat. They both turned to greet me with warm

Vienna’s POVThe 10-hour flight crawled by as I journaled, read, and dozed in uncomfortable intervals. My back ached, my feet were swollen, and my nerves were buzzing like static. Paris. I couldn’t believe I was actually doing this. A whole new country. A whole new life.When we finally landed and I stepped into the cool, elegant chaos of Charles de Gaulle Airport, the weight of it all hit me. I was really here. My hand trembled slightly as I clutched my suitcase and scanned the arrivals terminal for the taxi exit.And then I saw it.A tall, middle-aged man in a dark gray suit stood near the barrier. He held a sign high above the heads of the crowd. In neat, bold lettering, it read: "VIENNA McALLISTER."My jaw slackened. McAllister. He had written my new name—my family name. I blinked, almost wondering if it was a mistake. Then I stepped toward him cautiously.“Hello, sir. I’m Vienna,” I said, trying not to sound breathless.He turned to me with a dignified smile and a soft bow. “Ah

Vienna’s POVI slipped into a designer ensemble I’d been saving especially for Paris. For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t hiding my growing belly under oversized clothes.Jacques was tidying up near the front door of the villa when I came downstairs. "Morning, Jacques," I said brightly. "I’m off to explore. Wish me luck.""Ahh, enjoy Paris, Mademoiselle," he replied with a wink.The late summer morning kissed my skin as I strolled through the villa’s elegant neighborhood. I wandered without much of a plan, passing boulangerie after boulangerie—each one smelling more delicious than the last. But none of them quite called out to me. My first Parisian breakfast had to be just right.Then, as I climbed the steps leading toward the iconic Sacré Coeur, something shifted. The view of Montmartre’s raised dome took my breath away. Somehow, I felt like I was coming home.The rich scent of melted chocolate and warm butter pulled me toward a warmly lit display window. Behind the glass, rows of

Vienna’s POVMy tour of Paris had been nothing like I’d expected. No crowded landmarks, no overpriced cafés. Instead, Raphaël showed me the soul of the city. The winding alleyways lined with ivy-covered balconies, weather-worn buildings that whispered stories from centuries past, and tucked-away courtyards echoing with the sound of distant violins. He knew every corner, every detail, and had a story for each."This building," he said, pointing to a crumbling façade wrapped in vines, "was once a secret meeting place for writers during the war. They called it La Bouche Fermée. The Silent Mouth."I stared up, wide-eyed. "That’s incredible. I would’ve walked past it without ever knowing."He smirked. "That’s the charm of Paris, Mademoiselle. The best parts don’t shout—they whisper."By lunchtime, I was starving. Raphaël led me to a cozy café tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore, its terrace shaded by a grapevine-covered pergola. Inside, it smelled of garlic, butter and fresh herb

Vienna’s POVI spun around sharply to face the bully. He was the typical buff, popular type, leaning smugly against the counter. A couple of his cronies snickered behind him."Excuse me?" I said, my voice cutting through the air like a blade.The guy looked up, mock-innocent. "Did I do something wrong?""You said something vile," I snapped. "Apologize.""Relax, Miss Up-Tight. It was just a joke.""Then it was a stupid one," I said coldly. "If you think racism’s funny, you’re in the wrong kitchen."Chef Marceau must’ve overheard the exchange, because he appeared beside us like a ghost. "Is there a problem here?"I opened my mouth, but Zanele placed a gentle hand on my arm. "We’re fine, Chef," she said coolly. "Just clarifying a misunderstanding."The chef studied us, then looked at the boy. "Keep your jokes out of my kitchen, Mr. Laurent. That’s your only warning."The boy shrugged and returned to his station, but the smugness in his face had disappeared.After Chef Marceau moved on, I